Last summer Best Boy bought the Dr. a big toy for his birthday – a “mid-life” motorcycle. Two safety courses and MDOT endorsement secured had us planning a week long trek mid-September from LA up the Cali coast on the Pacific Coast Highway-Route 1 and back down via Yosemite and the Mojave. The guys on their bikes with Mimi and me in their GTI (chase vehicle), we were off.

This adventure will be recounted eventually but for now it’s just to set the scene. I was going to be MIA for a bit. Ggma was all set-up safe and sound tucked in at TOH (The Old Homestead). Meanwhile we were exploring abodes via Airbnb. Each one of the places we stayed had a unique charm.

Airbnb isn’t everyone’s cup of tea – opening a home to complete strangers or being the stranger inhabiting someone else’s space. Nightly, with great expectation we’d drive up to an address, secure the keys and play house. There were a few places we wanted to pocket the keys and become squatters while others weren’t more than a lay-over for our weary heads – glad to move on down the road after a few hours rest. Nothing was so scary or strange to make us want to pack up and leave.

Surprise sleeping arrangements weren’t much of a stretch for Best Boy, the Dr. and me. In our previous life, it was called a furlough. An ironic term -“furlough”. The standard scenario was a missionary family would report to churches that had financially invested in them (you know Return On Investment and reporting to the shareholders type of thing). I think we had 30 churches to visit. Typically we were hosted in parishioner’s homes. I shudder as I write those words. 99% of the meals and accommodations were perfectly lovely encounters (especially if you, dear reader, happened to have hosted us at some point). But that 1% is like gravel imbedded in a leg after laying a motorcycle down on a curve – too painful to dig out every last piece and just barely visible under the skin so as to never be forgotten. Again, I go on record to declare I have writing material for years to come as this is way cheaper than any therapy.

It takes some serious chops to continually be in someone else’s personal space and not go bonkers. An overnight might not be long enough to notice things that would be a complete creep out. Since being hosted was part of our lifestyle, we had zero reservations about letting others use our apartments in Spain (yes, plural because we lived in five places in a little over a decade). If we were Stateside for the summer visiting those churches, our empty place was open to house travelers with co-workers managing the bookings. Sometimes guests would leave behind thoughtful hostess gifts. One in particular was unforgettable and left in the most interesting place – peeking out from under a bookshelf in our bedroom – a hot pink thong. Honeymooners. ’nuff said.

Back to the story at hand. Having returned from the West Coast, I went to catch up with Ggma and immediately assessed she was no longer comfortable with any kind of absence on my part. We were at another fork in the road. By December, with nasty weather threatening our doorsteps, a new plan was improvised. Ggma would now be “riding in a sidecar”. She’s in our space at the Money Pit or I’m in her space at The Old Homestead.

After about two months journeying on this new path during an extended stay at the Money Pit she asked,

“Where’s the lady who owns this house?”

“Well, the Dr. & I own this house.”

She scowled at me with that look like I was lying through my teeth. Clearly we were having one of those moments. This can’t be fixed. This can only be managed. This I know: in her eyes, at that moment, I couldn’t possibly be the owner of the Money Pit and she wanted a word with whoever was in charge.

“Well, (with a tone of disgust) I am ITCHING to get at that filthy front window I’m staring at all day!!”

Distraction is the best course of action to move us along this road to ruin. Trying to go over the fine points of the family tree is futile. I had opened the drapes and sheers so that she could enjoy a clear view as she monitors the comings and goings of UPS, FedEx, USPS, garbage trucks, day-care drop offs and pick ups across the street, and oh, yeah – school buses. I hear it all. She’s got an eagle eye on when school is out and those kids are running hither thither and yon – when they aren’t wearing jackets and they should be headed indoors to get at their homework.

With a subtle move, simultaneously opening the front door to grab the mail,

the sheers were drawn shut.

Out of sight. Out of mind. End of discussion.

But this place where she’s staying – whoever owns it – needs a housekeeper.

There has been a long gap in my thinking out loud into the vast space of the interwebs. I got tired of all the noise and will play catch up and explain in the days to come. But that noise…it got to me just like the constant nagging of my geriatric feline. I’m forced to shut her down in the basement about once a day to keep me from some uglier scenario. The vet always laughs when I complain about the vocal prowess of this animal. I’ve been tempted more than once to crate her up and ship her off to a long ago ex-boyfriend of Shop Girl. Back in the day they thought it’d be adorable to adopt a homeless mouser. He owes me 13 years of back child support.

Last month sometime, or was it a week ago, or mid-winter – I have no idea anymore…I thought Bitty Kitty had finally decided to sprout wings and leave us all behind. She had signed an advanced directive years ago so there will be no heroics in the last days. After spending a day hanging out in the nether regions of the Money Pit, I checked on her before bed and found her hunkered down on a cerulean blue down jacket of Billy’s. I know…don’t ask. (remember the 4Rs: Reduce, Recycle, Reuse, and the 2015 addition: REFUSE to take time to clean your basement or attic).

I slept somewhat fitfully that night imagining the scenario in the a.m. – contacting the vet to dignify the remains and all. Being a typical Spring in the Mitten State meant it was still pretty cold out so I figured I could use the garage as a temporary morgue if need be. I remember that the next day had some kind of busyness to it so I thought there would be a delay in the funeral arrangements.

Tentatively opening the basement door that next morning, I wondered if I’d be letting her soul fly out past me since the only other escape route would have been through the sewer via the basement floor drain. Imagine my surprise when that cranky, meowing, nagging, whining, and bitching sound connected with my ear drums.

When I shared the news with Shop Girl later in the day she quipped, “Your people refuse to die.” MY PEOPLE REFUSE TO DIE????!!!! There have been any number of mornings since the first of December when there is nothing but silence when I’m expecting creaking and complaining from the 110 year old floor boards of Ggma’s bedroom above my head as I’m perched on the couch in the living room having my first coffee exilir. When I just can’t take it anymore I’ll open the door to find her snoring loudly buried in two down comforters.

I can only hope that the end for both of them will find them nestled in feathers and sleeping. I don’t know what really awaits on either score. I’m not in charge. I’m just here to be the wind beneath their wings. Take it away Bette.

There are times that I really think that I’m getting agoraphobic…or truth be told I’m just a lazy caregiver. I’m now living the reality that was my standard advice for new moms, “If your teeth get brushed before noon – it’s a good day.” Or I am suffering from Stockholm Syndrome – Ggma doesn’t complain any more if she’s in her pjs all day – why should I be any different?

A friend’s darling daughter included my name on the list of well-wishers for a surprise 60th birthday party for her mom. We were high school friends that had reconnected after decades of radio silence. Panic set in immediately. I rarely go public. At least, this kind of public. My kind of public is my ghetto grocery store where they only know me with my unruly witch worthy mane yanked up on the top of my head. I pulled off a miraculous appointment at a “shi shi la la” (Best Boy vocabulary) salon where I’m sure they thought I was a homeless woman who’d found a gracious patron to invest in a make-over. The salon girls kept looking for the hidden cameras to pop out for the before/after money shots for a human interest story to be aired on local news at noon. Sorry girls. No cameras. It was just me trying to get my act together in one small way. That at least made me feel like I’d be somewhat presentable for this crowd of sophisticated strangers.

My real insecurities go back to high school with this group. In 7th grade, we’d moved from a very URBAN Gary IN to a very SUBURBAN Valparaiso. Billy was blue collar – I mean really blue collar since his work shirt was blue. Their dads were suits: school administrators and factory, restaurant and radio station owners. Ggma worked for ten years as an administrative assistant to a foreman in one of those factories. Another friend’s dad gave me my first of many restaurant kitchen jobs.

The appointed time to head out to the party had come and Ggma was all set up for me to be gone two hours. She had my phone number plopped on her lap, though not actually sure she would have known the difference between the TV remote or the phone but she had the number and was very glad that I had friends who wanted to see me.

I entered the packed house, ducked my head and headed to the back of the room to await the moment of the surprise and find the one or two other familiar faces I knew would be there. Someone yelled my name and I was embraced by birthday girl’s older sister who I’d not laid eyes on since 1971 or so. There were a few more of those reunions before the bday girl arrived. Surprising connections, things in common I never would have imagined, and memories long forgotten – were the things tucked in my pocket when it was time to head back to Ggma.

That sneak away refreshed me in whole bunches of ways. It forced a much needed hair cut for one. Now two days later I’m at the end of what has been just another challenging Ggma day.

“Does she have a Mom?” I had just disconnected from a FaceTime chat with Shop Girl, Donny Diva and Littles that Ggma had enjoyed. “What? Who? Shop Girl? Yes – ME!” That pesky family tree thing again. “I guess I never knew that, ” her voice trailed off in confusion.